


Beware the Jabberwock, My Son

by dragonnan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse Against a Minor, Autism Spectrum Sherlock, Bullied Sherlock Holmes, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidlock, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Unilock, Young Sherlock Holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24786886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: Mycroft is late, as usual, collecting his younger brother from school.  Left to his own devices, Sherlock wanders the grounds and, of course, finds himself caught in a family drama for once not his own.  That doesn't mean he comes out of it unscathed.  Far from it.
Comments: 35
Kudos: 127
Collections: Sherlock Author Showcase 2020





	Beware the Jabberwock, My Son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sgam76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/gifts).



Forty-five minutes. Not the first time he'd been left to linger in the blazing sun while his brother cavorted with some random dignitary in need of a good pandering. Mummy and Daddy had been in Prague for the past week, and weren't due back for another three days, so Sherlock's fate, then, rested with his lazy git of an older brother to collect him at the end of term. Of all the luck.

Sherlock held back on the urge to kick at the untidy scatter of gravel that had been strewn across the pavement, with the exodus of students, not long ago. It had been a hit to his dignity, being the last student remaining after everyone had gone. It wasn't so much his outcast status; he rather preferred it to the humiliating and, at times, painful treatment he'd received during his brief stint at Winchester. That didn't mean, though, that he wanted to wander the grounds indefinitely like some wraith from a Dickens novel.

Stomping down the zig zagging steps to the small courtyard below, Sherlock tugged the stiff collar of his starched shirt away from his throat – the loathsome tie already wadded and crammed in the pocket of his dark blue blazer, which hung askew from one slender arm. Mummy would have a fit at the state of his neckwear but he could barely tolerate it most days and tended to rip it free the first chance he got. Cutting across the manicured lawn, he worked his way round the side of the complex where large trees offered an amount of shade. His overnight bag dragging behind him, leaving a small groove in the verdant grass, Sherlock was nearly to the wide spreading oak near the dormitories when he heard a clipped whine.

Shoving his bag up against the peeling tree bark, blazer thrown aside and landing atop the bag more by luck than design, he scuttled to the outer wall of the raised courtyard in order to gain an unimpeded view. The trees were thicker, here, towards the back. Too early for the groundskeeper, the litter from an impromptu rugby game, among the older boys, still lay scattered about. Sherlock toed aside a paper serviette, stained with grease, before gracefully climbing into the branches of one of the smaller beech trees. Hidden amongst the aubergine leaves, he leaned forward, wrapping his fingers around a branch smoothed by many a young man's grip, to peer out at the scene below.

There were two figures – one significantly larger than the other – about 10 yards further on and close to the treeline. The large man Sherlock didn't recognize; though it wasn't difficult to surmise the relationship. The boy was someone Sherlock knew more by nature of a shared disdain, cast upon them by the greater student body, than due to any sort of interaction. Intelligent, gentle, and possessing a sort of oddness that set him apart, Lucas Peacock had even less in common with the rank and file of Harrow than Sherlock did. At 16 he was two years Sherlock's senior. However he was one of the few students whom Sherlock had felt any sort of affinity; though their interactions had started and ended with Lucas offering the rare smile and Sherlock giving Lucas his lunch on exactly one occasion. It had been beans and franks; appalling, bland, and of an unidentifiable protein source. Not the first meal he'd foregone – there were limits, after all. Lucas hadn't minded one bit – gangly as he was and somewhat concave he'd wolfed down the meal and nearly licked the plate.

Now, he frowned as the large man; father, going by the similar features, gave Lucas a vigorous shake before slapping him across the cheek.

Slipping from his perch, Sherlock darted across the manicured green, quickly drawing dual attention.

Mr. Peacock scowled at his approach. “Run along, boy!”

Thin arms folded over his chest, Sherlock took in the darkening bruise on Lucas's cheek as well as the swelling of his lower lip.

“The grounds are off limits to anyone not a student and are restricted to students and faculty only. You aren't supposed to be back here.” Not entirely true, in fact, though it was unlikely the brutish man would be aware of school policies.

“Aren't you a bit young to be attending this school? Where are your parents?” Peacock looked about himself with a trace of unease.

Sherlock sniffed. “I'm nearly sixteen.” Well, sixteen being relative; he was roughly thirteen months shy of sixteen, not that this thundering oaf would know the difference anyhow. “Aren't you a bit old to be beating up children?”

Drawing himself up tall, the man shook Lucas by the grip on the boy's collar. “What I choose to do with my son is no concern of yours, boy! Now run along! This is no affair of yours.”

Instead, Sherlock crowded closer – sneering at Peacock's unkempt clothes – the spot of gravy on his collar – the untucked shirttails – the overall slovenly manner with which he carried himself. “Perhaps not but I'm betting the school administrators would take an interest in what you're doing.”

The congealed rage was barely a warning as Lucas was abruptly thrust towards the grass, his shoulders impacting hard enough to knock the wind from his chest, as Peacock turned fully towards Sherlock.

Sherlock was suddenly, vibrantly, aware of two things. The size of the man he'd elected to confront, and the absolute absence of any other human life, outside of their tiny drama.

He realized that a wise option, hinted in his brother's bored tones, would be to turn heel and run for the main building and the promise of adult support. He was light on his feet and very fast and knew he could easily outpace the stumbling drunkard at barely half his normal speed. However that option also came with a cost. By the time he was able to reach the headmaster's office, navigate the throng of staff demanding he explain what he was doing indoors “without a parent or guardian”, locate an adult willing to actually listen, and then prod, wheedle, and harry said adult back out onto the grounds, Peacock would be long gone and Sherlock would very likely be presumed of either a wild imagination or outright lying.

So, instead, he spread his stance; feet slipping a bit in the damp grass, and subtly turned himself to the side. Instructions unfolded in his mind – those long afternoons in a light cotton gi, the pants of which were always slightly too long.

At his movement, Peacock first grinned; then laughed. “And what is it you intend to do with those tiny fists, boy? Box my kneecaps for me?” He laughed again – making a mock lunge. With practiced ease, Sherlock twisted to the side, spun on one foot, and slammed his heel in Peacock's groin – hard.

The large man howled – cupping between his legs and nearly going down on one knee.

And that was where Sherlock made his devastating mistake. Intent on ending things, quickly, he darted around the broad figure, elbow poised to bury in a kidney, when a shattering blow impacted the side of his head and threw him five feet back into the solid ground.

His shoulders twitched as he tried to remember how to lift his arms. There was a reason he needed to stand, and quickly, but he couldn't seem to order his thoughts enough to remember why. And then pain tore at his scalp as heavy fingers twisted into his hair and pulled; forcing him to his knees. Peacock shook him violently and Sherlock was certain he was going to vomit. A bright halo surrounded the man that Sherlock knew meant Bad Things. But before he could consider that information Peacock was spitting something furious at him – similar to the hate-filled words directed at his son. Sherlock was finally able to lift one hand and lace his fingers around the man's wrist.

“Get your hands off me you little shit!” Peacock released his hair just as he backhanded Sherlock across the cheek.

He was on the ground again – stomach heaving acidic bile when the hands grabbed him for a third time. Sherlock couldn't help it, he whimpered, arms raising to cover his face. And Peacock laughed. He laughed, and laughed, and then his open hand struck the side of Sherlock's head; once, twice, and on the third slap Peacock let him drop.

“Stay away from my family or there'll be more of that! And worse!” Sherlock heard him spit; and then there followed a hazy period – the vague sense of footsteps retreating and time slipping by in some fashion.

Shadows passed over him but he couldn't imagine moving – between the halos and throbbing shapes and tinnitus if he so much as lifted his head he would vomit. So he stayed on the ground and counted his breaths and tried his damndest to block the misfiring signals _-PaIn-nAuseA-bleEdiNg-DizZy-_ hammering at the soft tissue inside his skull.

He had no idea how long he lie there.

He'd been cringing at the piercing _screedch_ of cicadas when the cacophony of mating insects was broken by the rapidly building thunder of steps pounding through the grass.

Peacock coming back for more, just as he promised! The moment hands touched him Sherlock bellowed – swinging blind and feeling his left hand rake along flesh; the satisfaction of a pained grunt immediately lost as his wrists were caught and soft words made headway through his panic.

“Easy. You're safe. Focus on my voice.” Repeating cadence as slowly he was released – the hands staying well away and allowing him space to breathe – to regroup.

Then, eyes still tightly shut, he sniffled and turned his head. “Mycroft?” He hated the tiny warble but couldn't help the relief when his brother responded.

“I'm here. Are you able to move? Is anything broken?”

Sherlock flexed his hands; his arms. But when he braced against the ground and tried to push up he gasped – subsiding again as sharp pain ballooned through his skull and shrieked through his ribs. “It's... I can't...”

A firm hand pressed solid against his leg. “I'll fetch the matron...”

“No!” Sherlock snatched outward and managed to catch a sleeve by pure luck. “Please, My just... I want to go home... please...”

A sigh followed. Then... “Very well. However I will need to carry you. Do you need time...?”

“I...” Fingers dug in the grass, Sherlock curled into himself. So Mycroft waited while Sherlock steadied himself – taking the steps needed to prepare for what would certainly be both painful and grating. Deep breaths – fingers playing against the earth. Then, finally, he nodded – even that small movement crashing a tsunami of stomach rolling agony through his head.

Mycroft was careful but there was no avoiding the turmoil caused by hefting his brother in his arms. It was brutal. Sherlock gagged; longer fingers clinging to Mycroft's jacket as he used every technique he knew to hold himself together. It seemed an age before, sweet blessed relief, they reached the car and Mycroft helped ease him onto the back seat – covering his face with his jacket to block out the throbbing rays of sunlight.

He sank against the cool leather and knew little more until, an undetermined time later, his brother's voice intruded once more.

“We're home. Just a short distance to the house, if you can manage it?”

He could – though he had to cling tight to his brother the entire time and depend upon his guidance to avoid stumbling as Sherlock still couldn't manage vision without a sickening swoop through his belly.

And then he was laid on the couch – both of them agreeing that navigating the stairs to his bedroom was too daunting a prospect. What followed was yet another exercise in misery. For half an hour Mycroft held him steady as he repeatedly heaved into a bowl. Attempts to stifle the flow with medication led only to repeating bouts to the point he was sweaty and shaking by the time it abated. In between gagging up his organs, Mycroft dabbed a wet flannel at his various wounds – primarily the seeping split that cut a line through both his upper and lower lip – courtesy of the ostentatious emerald on Peacock's ring.

Eventually, though, the bloodied rags were gathered and the bowl rinsed and left on the floor near his head. Mycroft insisted on pain medication and a few tentative sips of juice. Afterward Sherlock was left alone. It was only a short time later that sleep finally pulled him under.

It was dark when Sherlock woke. His head still hurt but not in that violent way from earlier. He was able to open his eyes and, best of all, the sickening halos were gone. But other aches had now asserted themselves. His ribs and right hip were nearly immobile after repeated impacts against the ground. There were bruises and small cuts on the back of his hands from trying to block the blows Peacock had rained on him – the gemstone in his ring leaving narrow gouges behind – and his shoulders felt half twisted from the sockets. As for his face it was a network of throbbing hurts.

Grunting, he stiffly pushed upright – wobbling as he struggled to regain his balance. From the kitchen, he heard a small sound, and then Mycroft stepped into the room. His face gave away little but his eyes flicked up and down Sherlock's form in an evaluating fashion.

Sherlock noted, however, that Mycroft's hands were in fists at his sides.

“You've been asleep for three hours. How is your pain?”

Both arms wrapped around his middle, Sherlock groaned. “Painful.” He squinted as he regarded his older brother. “I see you capitalized on the opportunity to invade the icebox.”

Eyes losing some of their softness, Mycroft snorted. “Quite. The devastation was incalculable.” Stepping forward he braced a hand against Sherlock's back. “I prepared dinner, you insufferable brat.”

Swatting away the probing fingers, Sherlock was, nonetheless, grateful at the proffered ice pack – which he held against his tender scalp. He briefly considered an entire tub of ice water – surely every bit of him could benefit from the soothing cold.

While he was busy with the ice, Mycroft returned to the kitchen; only to reemerge minutes later with a bowl and glass of water.

“Lentil Bolognese.”

Sherlock regarded the heavy soup; inhaling the rich scent and wary of his sensitive stomach. However there was no indication of further upset so, gathering some broth on his spoon, he sipped delicately. In short order he'd eaten more than half before setting aside his utensil. Dinner was followed by a decadent slice of tarte tatin supplied generously with a heap of thick créme fraîche. Sherlock ate every crumb and watched enviously while his wretched brother followed suit without so much as offering a single bite from his share.

After the plates were cleared away, Sherlock settled back against a heap of pillows and sighed. When Mycroft took the chair across from him, however, Sherlock clenched his fingers and stared towards the fireplace.

“This cannot be avoided, brother mine. I need to know.”

Still looking away, Sherlock hunched his shoulders. “What for? There's nothing to tell. I picked a fight and lost. Certainly that wouldn't be the first time I came out the wrong end in a scrap.”

“No, but you also are not one who typically initiates a fight. So why now? And with an opponent of clearly larger size, going by the shape of those bruises.”

At the continued silence Mycroft sighed. “Very well. I suppose I shall have to speak with the Administration as well as members of the staff. Surely one of them will have seen...”

“It was Mr. Peacock.” The admission came out in a soft murmur – Sherlock's throat flushing with heat.

Mycroft stared at him, openly aghast. “Bradford Peacock did this to you?”

Finally lifting his head, glaring, Sherlock jutted his chin. “I believe I told you that I started it.”

“Yes, you did. However, you failed to mention that your opponent was an adult man with at least ten stone on you.”

Sherlock's thumb dug into his index finger while pondering the stability of his limbs. At least in his own room he could conceivably lock Mycroft out. Not that his brother wasn't capable of entry if he so chose – locks were more of a suggestion for the both of them, much to the dismay of their parents.

“He has a young son, as I recall. A boy close to your age. Lucius.”

“Lucas.” Sherlock's eyes had returned to the fire but he could feel Mycroft's heavy gaze bearing on him.

“He was abusing him.” There was no question in the statement. Sherlock didn't reply but his teeth tightened together. Mycroft's voice fell softer still; dangerous. “And when you attempted to stop him... he beat you.”

“Beat me. He hardly-”

“You have two cracked ribs, a concussion, and there was blood in your vomit!” The fury in his brother's tone snapped Sherlock's jaw shut like a vise. His fingers twisted and pulled at the legs of his trousers until he noticed and forced his hands still.

Twice his mouth opened with a retort at the ready and twice he swallowed it back. His tongue dragged across his broken lip and he flinched. His fingers resumed their movement so he tucked them beneath his arms. Voice a dull rasp, he finally managed to get something past his teeth.

“I did what I had to do.”

Across from him, breathing out heavily, Mycroft nodded. “As will I.”

It was a week later; Sherlock's bruises mutated to a sickly green and yellow, that he was crouching in his favorite listening spot at the top of the stairs behind the top pillar. An unrepentant eavesdropper he had his head tilted back and both feet braced on the opposite wall. Below, his mother was preparing breakfast while his father and Mycroft sat at the table sharing the paper. Since his parent's return he'd been expecting some sort of outrage with regards to his injuries. Though he'd been able to mask the pain to his ribs he couldn't hide the variegated hues on his face. Yet, upon their arrival home, collected by Mycroft in Father's old sedan, Mummy had merely tsked; brushing the hair from his forehead with worried eyes before sighing. “Oh, Sherlock.”

Whatever fantasy Mycroft had spun, it had clearly been good enough for his parents. No doubt painting Sherlock in a less than favorable light.

Still, the truth would have been worse, with consequences that didn't bear consideration.

The scent of his mother's scones began to waft up the stairway. Sherlock breathed in appreciatively – eyes closed and lifted towards the warm morning light, when his mother's voice, and a familiar name, suddenly cut across his musings.

“I heard Bradford Peacock was arrested.”

Sherlock stilled – a cool weight heavy in his belly. After a beat his father hummed; likely swallowing a sip of coffee. “I hate to speak ill of anyone but I have always felt there was something not quite right about him.”

Mellie made a sound before her voice rose again. “It seems he was discovered behind a pub in the village.”

Mycroft's voiced filled in when Mummy trailed off. “As I read it he had apparently been beaten. Severely. In fact, both hands were broken and several teeth were knocked out. Given how he had been treating his son it was the least he was due.”

“You needn't sound so delighted, Myc! Atrocious business.”

Sherlock barely held himself back from peering around the corner and giving himself away – though he had no doubt that his brother knew he was there.

“No, what was atrocious is the reason why he was arrested in the first place. And I will delight in any punishment delivered to a man for hurting a child.”

In that moment Sherlock was certain Mycroft was not, entirely, thinking of Lucas. It left an odd heat behind his eyes.

There was a familiar clunk of the oven door and the rattle of a tray setting down on the counter. “No. I suppose I cannot fault how you feel. In truth, when I read how he'd been abusing that precious child I wanted to race to the constabulary and personally tear out his eyes.”

Father chuckled. “I would have driven you there, my love.”

Nose wrinkling, Sherlock let himself slump back against the bannister.

“Still, I feel for that poor boy. It destroys me to think of him taken into care.”

Mycroft's voice interceded again; deeply pleased with himself, no doubt. “You needn't fear, Mummy. I understand he will be taken in by his maternal grandmother. From what Sherlock has told me, she cares for him a great deal.”

Sherlock had told him no such thing; though he didn't doubt it was true. Not that he appreciated being made an accessory to his brother's schemes. Still, he could admit to being... content... with the outcome of Mycroft's intervention.

Conversation soon drifted to less interesting topics and Sherlock entertained himself with his own thoughts – roaming the fields in his mind until-

“Alright, young man, enough lurking! Breakfast is on! But do wash up before coming down here; no doubt you've collected several pathogens on those hands.”

Silently, Sherlock stood and crept back from the stairway. Mummy may suspect him of listening in but as yet could not prove fact without eyes on. On cat's feet he eased his way back to his room and up onto his bed – waiting several beats before loudly allowing his heels to thud against the floorboards. Shuffling to the door, he cracked it open – letting the hinges squeak, before calling down in a voice heavy with sleep.

“Did you call, Mummy?”

Her less than convinced snort carried easily from below. “Oh, you heard me. Hurry, now, before your eggs go cold.”

Grinning, Sherlock made his way to the washroom.

No doubt he would owe Mycroft for his illicit use of manpower on a less than sanctioned mission. His brother always did collect on his debts. Still... Sherlock couldn't deny that the results had been worth it. Maybe he could even convince Mycroft to procure a booking photo of Mr. Peacock.

Fingers clean enough and somewhat dried, Sherlock pressed his arm against his side and headed for the stairs.

It appeared it was going to be a fantastic day.


End file.
